


Season of Light

by caras_galadhon (Galadriel)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Community: deancas_xmas, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Holidays, M/M, Season/Series 05, Seasonal, Sentimental
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-13
Updated: 2009-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-08 18:12:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/caras_galadhon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys are up to their necks in demons, Dean is hurt, and the end is nigh; this isn't the sort of Christmas any of them had in mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Season of Light

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://oran.livejournal.com/profile)[**oran**](http://oran.livejournal.com/) as part of the [](http://deancas-xmas.livejournal.com/profile)[**deancas_xmas**](http://deancas-xmas.livejournal.com/) exchange. I've tried hard to include most of [](http://oran.livejournal.com/profile)[**oran**](http://oran.livejournal.com/)'s requests; it was lots of fun to try, and I hope you enjoy the results. Happy Holidays! (Originally posted [here](http://community.livejournal.com/deancas_xmas/16420.html?style=mine).)

The heat from the demon's nest as it burns somehow makes the cold all the sharper, Castiel notes. It curls and burns in his vessel's lungs, each inhale a tiny edged dagger, each exhale a plume of moist, warm white; a strange contrast against the clouds of pallid grey that waft from the charred hulk beyond.

He watches the ashes spiral upward, buoyed by the smoke and flames that still lick at the rubble of the warehouse. They've been standing here for hours, watching, waiting to make sure there are no survivors, no one to flee and find Lucifer, no one to tell him how close they've come to trapping Samuel. Hours which have passed slowly for all of Castiel's years, where once millennia were as the blink of an eye, but of late he finds he has become all too aware of the fleeting nature of the human life, and he is stunned anew that they cannot feel each second slipping quickly away. That they would choose to mark sixty seconds, sixty _minutes_ by standing in the flickering shadow of twisted metal and smouldering wood waiting for nothing to happen at all.

Just beyond him, ahead and to his left, he can see Dean shifting closer to his brother, pulling up his own collar to ward against the cold. Sam checks his watch, murmurs something to Dean, and almost as one they turn towards the Impala, Dean leaning heavily against Sam as he limps the few feet to the driver's side door. Even in the fading light, the rag around his upper thigh shows a slow-spreading stain of black, and Castiel feels a pang of something like regret.

"C'mon, Cas." It's Dean who speaks, and almost as if there is a string attached to his voice, Castiel is drawn to the car, drawn to Dean, drawn away from the remains of the demons, done in by something so close to their own Hellfire. Dean smiles, and Castiel is caught in his light, the flickering hope that Dean claims is long dead, but still wavers behind his eyes, not gone so much as banked so low Dean can pretend it has gone out.

It's the work of a moment for Castiel to settle in the backseat, buckling himself in just as Sam has lately begun insisting, giving him the perfect vantage point from which to watch the brothers argue over who will drive them back to Bobby's. By all rights, the wound delivered to Dean's leg should land him firmly in the passenger seat, but if Castiel has learned nothing else from the Winchesters by now, it's that the Impala is a sacred object, and the act of driving it is a great privilege. A privilege that can apparently be won by offering a flat hand to Sam's fist; Castiel reminds himself to ask Dean at a future date what paper and rocks have to do with driving.

Once both brothers are settled, they start their slow way back to the salvage yard, over icy highways and byways, every slight touch to the gas pedal threatening to make the whole car fishtail. Castiel wonders if he should suggest that Dean let Sam take over, given the stress this must be putting on his leg, but before he gets a chance, Sam takes a breath.

"Dean--"

"Shut up, Sammy, I'm fine," Dean growls, and it seems at that, the debate is over.

Silence descends once again, the only sound that of the Impala's engine, labouring through snow drifts, gunning up slick hills, punctuated by Dean's occasional blasphemies each time the back end slides. Castiel passes the time considering the curve of Dean's neck, the set of his jaw, the way his forehead wrinkles whenever they round a corner, and the curious fact that Sam's profile does not interest him so.

Just as the Impala begins ascending the next hill, Sam's cell phone goes off, and after a brief fumble, he has it out and open. Even from his seat, Castiel can hear the mumblings of the tiny, tinny voice coming out of the speaker, although the words themselves are a mystery.

"Hello? ...Hi, Bobby. ...Yeah, sure, we're just about twenty minutes away. But it's all taken care of. ...Yeah, no problem. We'll catch up with you then. ...Ok." As the phone clicks closed, Sam swivels his body towards Dean. "That was Bobby."

Castiel most definitely does not feel the corners of his lips quirking upward as Dean rolls his eyes. "I got that."

And yet even in the face of his brother's scorn, Sam pushes on, undeterred. "Bobby's hooked up with a couple hunters passing through town. They're going to take a few hours to compare notes and see if they can come up with any new information on that nest of demons. They've run across more than one in the past month. Seems like they're popping up more and more frequently."

Dean nods, grunting a little as he shifts to a lower gear, the crest of the hill in sight.

"He says not to expect him until late tonight, if at all. But there's a stack of pizza coupons on the kitchen counter we're welcome to use."

There's a brief space of almost-silence as a growl seems to build from deep in Dean's chest, rolling up and exploding out with the same force as Dean's palm as it thuds against the steering wheel. " _Goddammit!_ "

Castiel winces and sends a little prayer of apology to his Father; Dean doubts as Thomas did, but means no offense, this he knows. "I thought you enjoyed pizza."

Dean shakes his head, huffing out an angry breath. "No. _No._ It's not the pizza. It's-- Some damn Christmas this is. We're up to our eyeballs in demons, the world is falling apart, Bobby's off somewhere doing 'research', and I've got a hole in my thigh the size of a baby's fist." He sighs, his shoulders curling forward as if all the fight is draining out of him. "All I wanted was a little bit of pay-per-view porn, a cold beer, and maybe a microwaved turkey leg. Y'know, a traditional Christmas. Is that so much to ask for?"

Quite wisely, Castiel imagines, Sam finds that the trees on the other side of the passenger's window have suddenly become extremely interesting.

"In Heaven, every day is one in which to celebrate the birth of our Lord. No day is any less important. The cherubim and seraphim sing His praises at all times."

"I don't care about your fat, naked babies," Dean snaps, glaring at Castiel through the rearview mirror. "Today is Christmas Eve, and it's the time of year where everyone celebrates your dad and his kid by forcing ugly snowman sweaters on _their_ dads, and by getting up at 2 a.m. to stand in line outside stores in order to get the chance to buy _their_ kids the latest, greatest, most breakable toys ever. It's a time in which we celebrate peace, love and Jimmy Stewart, and if I want to sit around on my butt eating turkey and getting doped up on trip-- trippy-- tripto--"

"Tryptophan," Sam supplies.

"--tryptophan, then I think I'm entitled!"

"I didn't intend to imply that you weren't--"

"Shut up, Cas. Just shut up." Dean scowls, and Castiel feels himself properly cowed. He takes Sam's cue and watches the landscape slide by outside the car, letting himself feel the thrum of the engine, the vibrations running up his spine. It's almost soothing, and by the time they pull up in front of Bobby's, Castiel has a new appreciation for Dean's baby.

Sam's the first to hop out, trying to make it around to the driver's side before Dean can lever himself out, but he's waved off as Dean leans against the side of the car, catching his breath. "I'm fine. I don't need any help. I don't _want_ any help." And maybe he can move on his own, but it's painful to watch him limp across the space between the Impala and the door, so much so that Castiel moves to do what he always yearns to do: help Dean.

But before he manages more than a few steps, Sam's hand comes down heavily on his shoulder, stopping Castiel in his tracks. He smells a bit like warm musk and smoke as he leans over, murmuring in Castiel's ear, "Hey. You might need this." He's proffering a small, rectangular box covered in jaunty paper depicting an inch tall, wide-bodied man in a red coat and stocking cap, cavorting across a white background in an unending, unbroken line of his own twins, triplets, quadruplets and more. There's an even tinier sticker affixed to the box, displaying a minuscule reindeer with some sort of nasal concern that has caused his muzzle to swell uncomfortably. Above the reindeer, in Sam's unmistakable spiky writing, it reads, "To: Dean," and underneath, "From: Cas."

Castiel blinks. "Thank you, Samuel, but I-- I'm not sure what you intend for me to do with it."

Sam thumps him on the back. "Give it to Dean. You'll know when." And suddenly he's past Castiel, his attention entirely on his brother, his voice raised until it seems to echo in the still air. "Toss me the keys. I'm going to go grab some more bandages for your leg." He nods at the rag around Dean's thigh. "I think the gas station down the street should still be open."

From Castiel's vantage point, it seems as if Dean simply nods and passes Sam the keys, but the lack of a retort, the lack of some admonishment against hurting the car speaks volumes. He hurries to Dean's side, slipping his shoulder under Dean's arm, taking what amount of weight Dean is willing to give as Sam and the Impala rumble off.

They make their way slowly into the house, heading straight for the back bedrooms, bypassing all else. Castiel settles Dean on the edge of the bed, ignoring his protests as he kneels on the floor, working at knotted laces until he can slip Dean's boots right off. The socks follow next, and Castiel bats away Dean's fumbling fingers as he moves to undo Dean's fly.

"The jeans need to come off, Dean. I need to see the extent of your wound." It takes a little coaxing, but a few minutes later the rag has been untied and the jeans are in a little crumpled pile beside Castiel's knee. He puts his hands on Dean's thighs, gently pressing them wider as he leans closer to examine Dean's injuries. Curiously, he can feel Dean's muscles tremble under his fingertips, and he feels an answering roil in the pit of his own stomach. He glances up, and finds Dean staring right back at him, his tonguetip sliding slowly over his bottom lip.

"I don't believe the iron bar did more than give you a glancing blow," Castiel manages, the words oddly thick in his throat. "If you wait here, I'll retrieve the first aid kit and attend to it." As Dean nods, Castiel lets his palms slide off his skin and rises, heading down the hallway to the bathroom. Crossing near the entrance to the living room, Castiel stops, a light catching his eye through the doorway.

"Oh." The tree -- some sort of pine, he imagines -- stretches up and up until its top nearly brushes the ceiling. It fills Castiel's lungs with the fresh, green scent of the outdoors, a cool warmth completely contrary to all he's experienced this evening. Twinkling lights wind their way down its length and back up again, and a surprisingly large collection of small glass spheres of almost every hue hang amongst the branches, reflecting that light back and back again, multiplying colour on colour on light on brilliance until Castiel feels slightly besotted on sight alone. He blinks, clearing his vision only to take in the fact that someone, presumably Bobby, has pushed and shuffled and half-hidden the stacks of books, papers, weapons and wards under a veritable blanket of decorative touches. Four wool stockings, only two of which appear to be slowly unravelling, dangle from the fireplace's mantle dangerously close to a crackling fire. Garlands and clusters of berries run the length of the room, resting on any and all available surfaces, one such grouping even wrapped around the neck of a taxidermied beaver.

It's amazing how humans can make even the most humble of homesteads into places as glorious as the most vaunted house of the Lord.

When Castiel returns to the bedroom with the first aid kit, he finds Dean has tugged off his jacket and shirt and has wrapped himself in a faded red robe, presumably conjured out of thin air, or perhaps the dresser against the wall. He's stretched out against the pillows, eyes closed, which makes it all the easier for Castiel to settle beside him and tend to his wound, keeping his touches light and careful.

They pass the time in companionable silence until Castiel's most immediate duty is duly discharged, Dean's thigh bound tight and wound in gauzy white.

"Hey," Dean murmurs, eyelids flickering open as Castiel secures the dressing in place, "Sammy's been gone a while, now, hasn't he? You don't think he's run into trouble?"

Castiel smiles and shakes his head. "No. He's fine, I'm sure. As is Bobby." He offers Dean a hand, gently assisting him into a sitting position. "If you're feeling all right, you should take a moment to clean yourself further and take some medication. When you're ready, I believe I have something to show you." He can't keep the smile off his face, and honestly, he doesn't try.

Dean leans on him a bit as he gets up, but even so, he seems stronger after receiving a little care and concern. Castiel helps him to the bathroom, gently keeping his attention directed ahead of them, and leaves Dean there to perform whatever ablutions will help cleanse him, body and soul.

He retreats to the living room to stand back in front of tree, simply drinking in the sight. The needles, when he finally touches them, prickle against his palm, and he smiles softly when he catches sight of the small rag doll with the hastily pinned-on wings precariously perched in the topmost branches. He doesn't need to crane his neck to know the little scrap of paper hanging from its coat is inscribed with his name, but he does idly wonder if there's a tiny Dean hidden in and amongst the baubles, waiting for his angel doll to find him.

A shout from the direction of the kitchen snaps him out of his reverie. "Cas! Dude, you have to see this!"

Even though it's only a step or two to cross the distance to the threshold and another half-dozen steps again, by the time he's made it to the kitchen, Dean has already yanked what appears to be a large cast-iron pan from the oven, and is peering under the lid.

"Turkey, Cas! Turkey! And... oh, God, and stuffing too!" Dean picks at the turkey, hissing at the heat, but nevertheless triumphantly shoving a thin sliver into his mouth. He chews just long enough to clear his airway, and then he's grabbing for plates and cutlery. "Potatoes, Cas. Potatoes that don't need stirring after you pull the plastic back and shove the whole thing back in the microwave!" He sighs happily and waves Castiel towards the fridge. "See if there's something in there that'll wet our whistles." The plates clatter as he sets them down on the counter, and Castiel can see in his face echoes of the little boy Dean used to be, before he ever set foot on the road that's led him here, to this moment in time.

He does as Dean asks, and finds not only chilled beer and handmade cranberry sauce, but something he instinctively knows is entirely for Dean's benefit. "Dean," he murmurs softly, beckoning him over, and as Dean joins him, a waft of herbed warmth slides under his nose. To his surprise, Castiel's mouth waters, his vessel's base responses overriding angelic reactions.

He feels an arm slide around his middle as Dean laughs delightedly, the sound sending shivers of joy through Castiel's body. "Pie!" For a brief moment Dean squeezes Castiel tight before reaching for his true love, golden brown and bursting with cherries.

Dean appears to need a moment alone with this glorious new creature of pastry and filling, and for all Castiel wants to stand next to Dean, drinking in the length of his body, the warmth of his skin, his vessel's stomach seems to be far more focussed on the spread of meat and vegetables cooling on top the stove.

Stretched out on the floor, back against the couch, one side pleasantly toasty from the fire, plates scattered around them, Castiel reassess whether it was a good idea to join Dean in his holiday feast. His stomach feels distended, as if he has attempted to hide a Heavenly Host inside himself and it is now attempting to break free to answer a call to war. Of all the things he's done for Dean, this one is perhaps his least wise capitulation.

Dean must be on his third piece of pie by now, possibly his fourth, and from time to time he cackles and jabs Castiel with his fork. If his serotonin levels weren't so high, Castiel imagines he'd be faintly irritated by the dent the tines are making in his trousers, the twinging nuisance of each stab, but as it stands, he's content to simply bask in the light of the tree, surveying the remains of their meal.

"I knew Bobby was a wily old coot, but who knew Sammy had it in him, hmm?" Another poke to Castiel's leg punctuates Dean's assertion before he licks his fork clean and sets it aside. He tugs his robe down over his legs, shifting closer to Castiel in the process, his hip brushing against Castiel's own. "This must have taken some planning."

"Neither shared their plans with me," Castiel demurs, fingertips twitching with the sudden urge to smooth down the terrycloth nap. So much about Dean makes him _want_ , in ways he's never experienced, and doesn't quite know how to parse. He pushes his hands into his pockets, willing them to stop wanting, and he finds himself surprised as his knuckles brush against the small box Sam gave him. He tugs it out, turning it right-side-up and offering it to Dean. "I believe I am meant to give this to you."

Dean's eyebrows rise almost to meet his hairline. He takes the gift from Castiel's hands with a soft, "Thanks," and if he realizes the handwriting on the tag is his brother's, not Castiel's, he never lets on. Watching him handle the box is quite amazing, as Castiel tracks a flurry of emotions across Dean's face: surprise, wariness, anticipation, excitement, joy and, oddly, guilt. Yet he tears into the wrapping anyway, shredding the poor, helpless inch-tall men just before balling them up. He saves the tag, however, setting it aside in a curiously tender gesture, fingers brushing across the "From" field before returning to peel tape and rip paper.

"No," he murmurs, turning the now-bared cassette over in his hands, "You're kidding me. You're _kidding_ me. Led Zep at the Pacific Coliseum, July 18th, 1973? This-- this is _nine days_ before their three day stint at Madison Square Garden, and eleven days before they discovered their money had been stolen from the Drake Hotel. How-- Do you know how _rare_ a bootleg like this is?" Dean's eyes are wide, his expression earnest, and yet Castiel doesn't know what to say, doesn't understand any of what Dean's just said. He smiles and shrugs, and is taken completely by surprise when Dean grabs him and hugs him tight, thumping his back soundly.

"Samuel--" he offers, but is cut off with a tighter squeeze.

"Nah. Nah, man, it doesn't matter how. It's just-- Wow, Cas. I don't know how you did it, but this is one of the best presents a guy could get." He unwinds his arms, his fingers drifting up to fondle the amulet around his neck, and Castiel suspects that on some level, Dean knows exactly who is responsible for the tape. But Dean grins at him anyway, as if Castiel's has already found God, removed the threat of Michael's possession, and righted the world, and that smile makes Castiel's heart sing. It's the sort of smile that would have Castiel walking back into Hell, over and over again, from now until the end of time just to preserve the memory of it.

But the smile fades, replaced with that same worrying expression of guilt, making Castiel's stomach flip over painfully. "I don't have anything for you," Dean murmurs, and relief washes over Castiel, some faint memory reminding him that humans are profoundly obsessed with keeping score, with giving and getting, with turn-taking and reciprocating.

He holds up a hand, shaking his head, ready to ward off any thought of obligation, but as he draws breath, Dean's eyes glitter, and a grin completely unlike the one he'd gifted Castiel with a moment ago spreads across his face. At that look, the Heavenly Host takes flight in Castiel's abdomen, his heartbeat quickening.

"No, that's not right. I _do_ have something for you. Something I've wanted to give you for a long time now." And while there's a hesitation in Dean's voice, a fraction laced with what sounds like fear, there's not one second of pause before he reaches out, wraps his fingers around Castiel's tie, and pulls him closer.

Nose to nose, and Castiel can do little more than concentrate on breathing, his chest rising, falling, rising and falling again. Dean smells of boozy cherries, of sweetness and sin, of everything Castiel has ever wanted or needed.

The first brush of lips is like an electric shock running through Castiel's veins. Every muscle in his body clenches tight, drawing a whimper from his throat, almost painful in its intensity. Yet when Dean slides his free hand through Castiel's hair, cupping the back of his head, it's impossible for him not to relax into the caress, his mouth opening around a sigh. Dean swallows that sigh and another handful more, slowly deepening the kiss until Castiel gasps for air. Dean's fingertips press into Castiel's skull, firm but not hurting, the pressure making it wordlessly clear that Castiel is Dean's own, his angel, his helpmate, his partner and more.

More, much more, whatever Dean wants to use him for, whatever he wants Castiel to be, Castiel is certain in that moment he can be it and more, more, _more_ , as long as Dean keeps kissing him like this, keeps giving him more...

...He groans, sliding his hands under the folds of Dean's robe, stroking bare flesh he's never known he wanted, but somehow always has. And as Dean pushes him prone on the floor, tugging, ripping, pulling at his own wrapping, exposing him for what he is, Castiel feels the room take a breath, and he knows without having to see them that his wings are unfurling, brushing out and over his back, curling upward, wrapping around Dean, caressing him in a shadowed echo of Dean's hands on his face, his body, imprinting themselves on his soul.

Somehow -- with the tree lights twinkling, with the knowledge that good men have your back, with stomachs, hands and hearts full -- the world isn't so cold, Castiel realizes, and the cold isn't so sharp. It can't possibly be, not when you have another body close enough to make you burn. And burning is the very least of what Castiel is willing to do for Dean. This simple truth he knows with an intense certainty that goes deeper than feathers, blood or bone.


End file.
